Man of Honour

by Iain Gale

  ‘Ware cavalry. Cavalry on the flank. Right flank turn, form line. Prepare for cavalry.’

  Williams ran into action, trying to remember his all too brief training:

  ‘Prepare to repel cavalry.’

  As Steel watched the cavalry accelerated into a gallop. There could be no doubt now. They were French and they were making directly for the exposed right flank of Rowe’s disordered brigade. Straight for the regiment. For him. He tried to count them. Six, seven, eight squadrons. Too many. Perhaps 1,200 men. And as they drew nearer he began to recognize their uniform. Red coats with elaborate lace trimmings that stretched across the entire front. Silver lace adorning the hat of every man – irrespective of his rank. They wore vividly coloured crossbelts, a different hue for each company: yellow, violet, green, blue and that curious colour that only the French army wore: aurore, the colour of the dawn.

  These were the French army’s elite cavalry. The Gens d’ Armes. The gentlemen soldiers of France. The successors to the knights who, as every British schoolboy learnt, had fought against King Henry at Agincourt and who had famously died in a hail of arrows. These men, though, looked as if they were determined to avenge their slaughtered ancestors in this one brief moment.

  He shouted again to the Grenadiers.

  ‘Square. Form square. To me.’

  Slaughter too was fully aware of the danger now:

  ‘Christ almighty, Sir. Square. Form a square.’

  Had they had the time and seen the cavalry from a distance, this would have been a parade ground manouevre in which the four grand divisions of every battalion would have faced the rear by the ‘right about’, the second and fourth wheeling in to form the left and right faces and the other two the right angled sides. The two Grenadier platoons would then have either been used to strengthen the corners or as a central inner square, around the colours. Then on the command ‘face square’ all would have turned outward to the enemy. But the square that Steel now formed was something very different. This was a rallying square, an instinctive defensive block formed from his own half-company, reduced now to barely twenty men, joined by the remants of two other line companies. In all he thought there were probably close on a hundred men. They stood not in the prescribed three ranks but only two deep. The first, kneeling, had embedded their musket butts into the soft ground so that the bayonets pointed upwards at an angle designed to pierce a horse’s belly. Behind them another rank stood with fixed bayonets, ready to fire. Used properly, even without the third reserve rank, such a formation was impregnable to cavalry. But if at all ragged, it would falter and open and, once inside, the horsemen would simply ride about in a spree of killing. Slaughter and the other sergeants and corporals barked commands. They waited for the impact.

  ‘Dress your lines. Close up. Keep it tight.’

  Standing inside the hollow square, Steel looked about. Over there stood Tom Williams. He noticed that Laurent was with them, but there were no other officers to be seen. He peered outside the formation. Had the others managed to rally? Where were Sir James and the colours? Slaughter’s voice rang out.

  ‘Prime your weapons.’

  As one the Grenadiers raised their guns and, half-cocking the locks, poured a little powder into the frizzen pans, before closing them.

  ‘Load your weapons.’

  With well-drilled response, the men reached into their leather cartridge pouches. Extracted a cartridge and quickly bit off the end containing the ball, being careful not to swallow. They carefully tipped the black powder down the muzzel of the gun, then spat in the ball and folding up the paper case, pushed it too into the hole. Eager hands drew the wooden ramrods from their metal holders and pushed the wad down the barrel.

  ‘Make ready.’

  The guns were brought up to chest height, as thumbs simultaneously pulled back on hammers. Still looking to the right, Steel could make out at least one more square of red. But too many of the men were still adrift, out of formation and horribly exposed. The French horsemen were almost upon them now.

  ‘Present.’

  The men along the side of the square closest to the cavalry raised their muskets.

  The big horses were bearing down on them hard.

  ‘Wait for it. Wait. Steady.’

  Twenty paces out and Steel saw the blades, shining in their evil, razor-edged beauty.

  Now.

  ‘Fire.’

  The side of the square opened fire. Twenty-five muskets at close range against the ragged ranks of a charging troop of cavalry. He heard the balls make contact through the smoke. The weird plop as they sank into flesh. The whinnying horses and the screaming men. On either side of him horses and cavalrymen crashed into the redcoats. Their swords though did little damage. The men and in some cases the beasts were dead or dying by the time they hit the line. Neveretheless the impact of the sheer weight of cavalry was enough to topple several of the infantrymen. Three men away from him, one of the horses, huge and black, had gone careening straight into an angled bayonet which had ripped into its chest tearing apart flesh and muscle. The beast collapsed heavily upon the weapon and its owner, a Grenadier, dropped it just in time. Then, quick-witted enough to draw his short sword, he stabbed towards the rider, still in place on his saddle, and plunged it straight into his chest.

  Steel shouted across to him:

  ‘Well done, Morrison. Keep it up.’

  As the smoke began to clear it became evident that, with extraordinary luck, almost every one of the bullets from the volley had struck home. Before the square the ground was a mess of fallen men and horses. Most of the horses that had ben hit were not yet dead and lay in agony on their riders. Few of the cavalrymen were moving. One though, bleeding from a wound in his stomach, was endeavouring to drag himself away. Behind the wounded the rest of the attackers had reined up and were pulling back. For the present at least they appeared to be safe.

  But Steel’s relief was short-lived as, to the right of his square, another troop from the same unit now caught his attention. He watched, intrigued, as a third and fourth squadron of the red-coated horsemen swung into the retreating infantry who had not yet found shelter in a square. He heard forlorn cries as small groups attempted to form square. Saw the sabres slice down again and again. Heard the whoops of exultation as the blades came down upon the heads and shoulders of the terrified redcoats. Steel saw one man running blindly. He had lost his right arm and, still on his feet, was making for one of the squares, the men in its ranks calling to him, urging him on. It was a useless gesture. As he watched a huge Frenchman on a black horse rode up behind the maimed man and with a single chop of his sabre sliced him through the head so that it fell apart like a ripe fruit, spilling the man’s brains. The men in the square jeered and raised their muskets as the Gen d’Arme rode off to find easier prey.

  Steel searched the squares with desperate eyes and tried to see what had happened to the rest of the battalion. He thought that in one of them he saw Colonel Farquharson. Of the colours though there was no sign. Then he saw them. Only one Ensign remained with the precious symbols of the regiment’s pride, a boy of perhaps sixteen, newly joined, clutching the ragged red Colonel’s colour. The bright red Scottish Saltire was held now by one of the senior sergeants. Steel saw that with his other hand he was steadying the ashen-faced Ensign. Saw him whisper something in his ear. A small group of men from the battalion had formed about them and Steel saw that it included two Grenadiers, Royce and one of the younger recruits, Ritchie, he thought.

  The little group appeared to be edging carefully away from the cavalry, attempting to find safety in the squares but they had not gone ten yards when they were spotted. With cries and huzzahs all of a troop of cavalry charged towards them. Steel watched as the infantrymen, perhaps a dozen of them, made ready as best they could. Two of them fired a desultory shot and then the cavalry fell upon them. He saw one of the line company men skewer a Frenchman with his bayonet under the armpit, only to be cut down in turn by the ride
r’s side man. The Ensign, his thin standard issue sword raised high above his head, made a clever cut at a cavalryman’s thigh and hit home with surprising force. The man recoiled, clutching at his bleeding leg, but behind him another man took his place, only to be parried by the boy. But there was nothing that the Ensign could have done about the third man, who came at him from behind and cut down hard and fast straight through his shoulder and deep into his upper body. Steel saw the poor boy’s face contort in the agony of the moment and then noticed his eyes widen with shock and despair. Then he sank to the ground in a heap of bloody flesh and splintered bone and the smiling cavalryman reached out and grabbed the falling colour from his dying hands. Holding aloft the bright, blood-soaked banner, the Frenchman gave a shout of joy and rode away from the infantry back towards his lines.

  It was too much. Steel grabbed Slaughter.

  ‘Jacob. The colour.’

  ‘You can’t be serious, Sir. We don’t have a chance. It’s suicide.’

  ‘Are you coming or not? It’s now or never.’

  He looked for Williams.

  ‘Tom, tell Captain Laurent I’m taking the Grenadiers. He’s in charge.

  Steel unslung the gun from his back and, still grasping his sword, began to push through the side of the square nearest the French cavalry.

  ‘Grenadiers. Follow me.’

  The half-company and a few of Hansam’s men began to file out of the safety of the square, followed by Slaughter.

  ‘Bloody hell. Here we go. Hold on, Sir. I’m here.’

  Advancing in perilously open order and aware that at any moment they might be seen by the French cavalry, they walked across to the right of the field, towards where Steel had spotted a battalion of blue-coated Hessians. Up to now the Germans had been lying down in the marshy ground to avoid the cannonfire.

  As Steel and his men drew closer the German officer barked a command to his men and they rose up as one and, to Steel’s astonishment, quickly and efficiently formed a perfect defensive company square. They were Grenadiers. Steel’s precise equivalent in the army of Hesse-Kassel. They wore elaborate mitre caps with detailing even richer than that of Farquharson’s men, high-fronted in gold-embroidered red cloth with a red bag to the back, piped in white. Their dark blue coats were lined and cuffed in red and most distinctive of all their stockings were a shocking shade of scarlet. For the first time too Steel noticed that every single man, without exception, wore a moustache. He advanced towards the commanding officer of the company and gave a short bow. The German returned the courtesy.

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t speak German.’

  ‘I speak some English, Lieutenant. That will do for us. Hauptman Rodt. Grenadiers of Hesse-Kassel.’

  ‘Lieutenant James Steel, Sir. Sir James Farquharson’s Foot.’

  ‘Tell me, Lieutenant. You are doing a strange thing. You eave your square to come to us. What do you intend?’

  ‘I was wondering, Captain, if you might oblige us with a little help. You see, those gentlemen over there have taken our colour and I intend to take it back.’

  The Hessian peered through the smoke towards the French cavalry who were still happily engaged in riding round some of the detached survivors of Rowe’s brigade, hacking them mercilessly to death where they stood.

  ‘They have your colour? Of course you must take it back and of course we must help.’

  He turned to his company and barked an order. Instantly the Germans took a single pace forward, opening the ranks of the square as they did so.

  ‘And now, Lieutenant, if you would care to join us. I would be happy to have your men within my square.’

  Warily, but with encouraging smiles from Slaughter and Steel, the Grenadiers began to move into the Hessian ranks, intermingling as best they could. Steel and Slaughter joined the Captain in front of his men. From the left Tom Williams came running, grinning, to join them. Somewhere, he had finally lost his hat. He saluted first Steel, then the Captain and moved to stand to the left of the little group of officers. Rodt raised his sword arm and brought it down straight out in front of him.

  The German roared a command, shouldered the blade and the company began to advance towards the French. Slaughter half-turned his head to Steel:

  ‘You know there’s part of me, Sir, that says this is just plain madness. Infantry attacking cavalry. And the pick of the Frog cavalry at that.’

  ‘I dare say that part of you is right, Sarn’t. But there’s a part of me that says that we are duty bound to retake that colour.’

  After fifty paces Steel knew that the cavalry had seen them. Rodt knew it too. They halted. Steel lifted his voice above the guns:

  ‘Grenadiers. Prime and load.’

  The Gens d’Armes, bored with their bloody game, began to turn away from the wreck of Rowe’s brigade. Here was an altogether more tempting target. A small body of Hessians, with what looked like a few redcoats among them and a colour party in the rear. They had one standard already to lay at the feet of the Sun King. The prospect of two was irresistible. Purposefully the Frenchmen began to re-form and within a minute Steel saw that they numbered close on a hundred. He knew that at any one time the maximum number of guns from the square which could be brought to bear upon the enemy would be no more than twenty. He knew too that the French would have worked out the simple arithmetic. But there was something, he thought, with which the gentlemen of France might not have reckoned.

  Steel and the others had moved behind the ranks now to just within the square. Looking between the Hessians, he could see the French quite clearly. And there in their midst he saw the captive colour. It was better than he could have hoped. All the logic of war dictated that whoever captured an enemy colour should instantly return with it to the rear to present it to the commander and receive the deserved honours. But the Frenchmen were carrying it back into battle. Steel looked for Slaughter.

  ‘Jacob? We have one chance.’

  The Sergeant smiled. Steel turned to Rodt.

  ‘Captain. I have an idea.’

  The French, advancing steadily now, were confident of an easy victory. A square, properly formed, might hold off cavalry of the line or irregulars. But they were the king’s men, the Gens d’Armes of France, and such squares as this, poorly formed and half their size in number, was no great challenge. They would advance towards one side of the square only and once within twenty paces of its face would pull up and wheel round as if they were fleeing to the rear. At this stage of course the square would open fire and perhaps five of the cavalry would fall. But then, at a given signal the survivors would turn and, with the infantry busily reloading, they would charge straight into the men and with another wave close behind them, ride down the side of the square. The rest would be as easy as sticking pigs.

  As the cavalry grew closer, to within twenty-five paces, Captain Rodt ordered the ‘Present’ and twenty Hessians raised their fusils to their shoulders.

  Steel followed suit.

  ‘Grenadiers, make ready,’

  But instead of presenting their weapons, each of the redcoats delved into their pouches for a small black orb.

  ‘Light grenades.’

  They touched the fuses and the bombs sputtered into life.

  Some of the French cavalry saw what was happening and, almost at the moment at which they had been intending to make their feint, turned to retreat. It was too late.

  ‘Fire!’

  With a crash the line opened up. And as it did the twelve British Grenadiers hurled their grenades, full toss. There was a brief instant in which the world seemed to stand still. Then the bombs exploded and the pride of the French cavalry dissolved in a sea of flame and blood.

  Through the smoke Steel saw the carnage. Horses falling on one another and crashing into those in front. He turned to Slaughter.

  ‘Come on.’

  Together the two men ducked between the three ranks of the front of the British square and waded into the nightmare. Now the jubilant Frenchm
an who had taken the colour and slain the Ensign lay trapped with his prize beneath his disembowelled horse. Panic had seized the highly strung mounts of the Gens d’Armes, who yet remained unhurt, and they were galloping in every direction, unseating their riders and flailing wildly with lethal hooves that broke skulls and shattered limbs, indiscriminate of their uniform.

  In all the unfolding misery though, Steel’s attention was only focused on one man. He stood over the Gen d’Arme and saw the despair in his eyes as the great blade of the Ferrara sword swung upwards and cut the Frenchman through his upper arm and deep into his chin, cleaving his face in two. Putting his other hand to the bleeding wreck, the cavalryman dropped the standard and was finished by Slaughter with a blast from his gun. Steel picked up the fallen silken square on its pole and clutching it to himself ran back towards the lines. Another Frenchman rode out of the mass and reached to cut at Steel’s back, but Slaughter had seen him and, thrusting up with the short sword, skewered him through the belly. More Grenadiers were with them now, deep in the mêlée and pulling the horsemen from their saddles. But Steel knew that was no time to get carried away.

  ‘Grenadiers, to me.’

  They followed instantly, as one, not hesitating to question his command. Secure in their faith and trust. Racing for the lines, Steel, Slaughter and the men who had rushed out to help them, reached the safety of the Hessian square. The ranks opened barely wide enough to admit them and had only just closed when Rodt barked the command:

  ‘Fire.’

  Another volley sang out and what remained of four squadrons of the cream of the French cavalry turned and fled, leaving their dead and dying strewn on the ground before the breathless British and German infantry. From his right Steel heard hoofbeats and the echo of a hurrah. Into his line of sight erupted more red-coated cavalry, unmistakably English this time, General Wyndham’s Horse, five squadrons of them, charging across the scrub in pursuit of the broken Gens d’Armes. The French still outnumbered them by almost seven to five, but for all their boasted pomp they were no match for the British horsemen. It was a perfect display of the power of disciplined use of the cavalry. The British allowed the Frenchmen to outflank their three centre squadrons and then came at them from three directions, broke and routed the flanks, and then smashed into the centre.